February 3rd, 2025 - A Visit from the Chief

Dear TNY,

It’s Wednesday and not Monday because I left town for a little vacation before a big vacation but, really, my whole life is a vacation and it’s so much better than your turd-filled landfill of a life, even if I want to die, and “A Visit from the Chief” is the bullshit that you gave.

I’m in Walla Walla visiting friends and burning time before a big thing.  And it’s been good.  I have a whole floor to myself and people appreciate me here and I can listen to YouTube at a reasonable volume and fap my winkerdoodle without the fear of waking the baby or the dog or the husband or the wife and I can shower when I want, how many times I want, and I can…fuck, bro, I can breathe.  So that’s nice.  Getting ready for a much bigger run in the Chuckster, more to report on that as it happens.

First things first, this is the second story in a month or so in which no one caught the error of using “insure” vs “ensure”.  Second paragraph.  So right out of the gate, you cockgobblers look like fucking fools.  Absolute highschool level fuckfoolery and I’m NOT here for it.  This is your hundredth fucking year, m’kay.  Get it fucking right!  I’ve seen shit-covered toilet paper more composed than this.

Second, COMPRESSION.  So this story is forever long as it tries to recreate “A Good Man is Hard to Find” (which it supremely fails at), and the writing is so piss-poor in the first 1000 words that I had to skip ahead to the “action” to get engaged again.  But was I engaged?  No.  More on that in a minute.  We’ll stick to compression for now. 

I’ll back up for a second.  My bud and her dad are going to a dinner tonight and I’m using that time to write this.  And I should be focused on rapidity so some community drinking funtime afterward can be seized.  But, meh.  This FTNY project is not that meticulous but I want to take the time to show you some shit.  And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that narcissists like yourself don’t actually want feedback on how they’re doing.  The echo chamber is more than enough for you. But I’m going to do it anyway, while you folks say to yourselves, “Who gives any fucks if we are doing a good job or not!”  So let’s delve into an example:

Lidia tried to walk beside the woman and start some kind of conversation, but the woman was desperately slow, and when they were halfway up the stairs Lidia simply sped up and went out to the street, leaving her behind. Although the rain had lessened a little, she paused under a shop awning. She felt responsible, and her inability to free herself from other people’s problems filled her with exasperation. The old woman was taking the last step so laboriously that Lidia had no choice but to go back to her and ask what she planned to do next.

“I’m going home,” the old woman said. “I already told you!”

“But where is your house?”

The woman sucked in air as though summoning all her patience and drew herself up straighter, then glanced to either side while exhaling all the air she’d taken in, until her body returned to its initial curve. It was such a cartoonish gesture that Lidia felt her own brusqueness, sensed the tedium she was inflicting on the old woman with her questions instead of doing something useful to help her.

And now, for my entertainment and yours, here’s what compression looks like:

Lidia tried to walk beside the woman, but she was desperately slow, and Lidia left the woman behind. She paused under an awning though, regardless of the rain, because she felt responsible. Exasperated, she went back and asked what the woman had planned next.

“I’m going home,” the old woman said.

“Where is your house?”

The woman cartoonishly sucked in air and sighed. Lidia sensed the apparent tedium caused by her uselessness.

That was one pass.  From one section.  That I randomly selected.  How did I get queued up to this expansive and extraneous bullshittery?  This sentence:

Lidia would sit there at her computer and answer customer e-mails as they came in.

Which I would compress to this:

Lidia sat at her computer and answered customer e-mails.

That sentence is in the first thousand words and it’s not the only one.  What I’m trying to say is that I couldn’t begin to get emotionally invested in this story because I was continually assaulted by the absolute ineptitude of the author, his or her friends and family that read this before it was submitted, the agent or agents that represent the author, and every single motherfucker at The Goddamn New Yorker that read this blown-out cunt of a story and gave it the thumbs up.  The person I was most disappointed in, though, was the copyeditor.  I once watched a short film on your copyediting staff and how they pride themselves on being the best in the business, which is cool considering it’s a hard job, but even beyond that we have AI and word processing programs and apps and you fatherfucking twatrashes still went with “insure”.  Twice.  In a short period of time.  Even MS Word on my end was like, “What did he say?”  Just like the fucking meme.

I don’t have any experience in your publishing world, I wasn’t raised on nepo-tit; I was, in fact, homeschooled by a woman that did not graduate highschool, I learned how to write through intuition and practice and when I finally achieved formal training, I drank and partied through it, and I say all this to say that in the truest, boldest, Jack Palance from City Slickers sense, I crap bigger than you.

Kick rocks, you crusty come rags.  What a waste of my fucking time.

Oh, the pseudo-kidnapping hostage situation with the gunman and all that peepeepoopoo was not compelling at all because the writing was so busy doing an impression of a team of hungover rugby players fighting for toilet space the morning after a drunken shopping spree at Taco Bell that I couldn’t even pay attention.  Also, that scenario I just described would be far more interesting.

Well, have fun pooping back and forth.  Forever.

Nick

P.S. If there are any errors contained in any of my letters to you, please remember that I’m one person and I write 50 letters a year. Alone; no copyeditor. So if you are going to put some shots across this bow, remember that I’m the 1776 burgeoning United States to your Great Britain, I’m David to your Goliath, I’m 2000s Afghanistan to your United States, I’m the 1980 U.S. Men’s hockey team to your U.S.S.R., I’m the Roaring Kitty to your Market. What I’m saying, and I know you know what I’m saying but I’m going to say it anyway, is that you’re too big for your fucking britches and I’m coming to give you a spanking, even if I make errors. This reminds of the first porn store I ever went into, in Farmington, N.M., and I was looking at a rack of weird and obscure magazines and there was one called Cherry that contained pictures of bare-assed women bent over knees or beds or counters or sawhorses with gingham dresses or Catholic schoolgirl skirts getting the absolute dogshit paddled out of their asses. Honey, I’m the paddle. You’re the ass. Now, when I hit you again, after you yelp, say, “Thank you, daddy,” and I’ll reward you with, “Good girl,” before I Djokovic the blooming rosiness of your tender cheeks once more.